


here's to growing up

by youtiao



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Falling In Love, M/M, Pining, ch338 and beyond spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-03 21:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17885540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youtiao/pseuds/youtiao
Summary: Sometimes when you are an adult you will think about someone so often they wonder if they are coming down with a cold with all the sneezing they are doing, and you will pull out your phone and scroll down to their contact (wavy hair and blue eyes) and you will texthey, how’ve you beenwith that unsaidi’ve been thinking about you.in which akiteru learns how to fall in love.DISCONTINUED FIC





	1. there's still so many firsts for us

**Author's Note:**

> starts canon timeline 338! (spoilers for then on out) 
> 
> chapter titles from [stray kids - grow up](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a4jiotDjHe4)
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/kingzhys) | [tumblr](http://kingzhys.tumblr.com)

Akiteru has never quite allowed to be a kid. 

(See, that spot in the Tsukishima family was taken by Kei those many years ago, and though he does not resent his brother for that—how could he ever?—he thinks now, old and wondering if he’s become jaded, why he didn’t get that chance. He had been three like his brother had, he had been eleven like his brother had, he had been sixteen like his brother is now and as Kei grows he is still the child yet he wonders why a family has two children but only one who’s allowed to _be_ a child. 

He asks himself, _do you want to be a child?_ , but comes up blank.) 

So maybe it is less allowed—less _allowed_ , like that privilege had been taken away had been snatched away had been _not allowed_ to him than— maybe— 

(Children don’t describe themselves as _kid_ or _child_. Children describe themselves as _big brother_ or _king of the playground_ or _champion of catching pillbugs_. He thinks of that song that goes _you’re just a kid, so young and stupid_ , and he thinks, _yeah_. Kid means young and stupid, and no kid thinks they are young and stupid until they look back when they are old and maybe-maybe-not jaded and smile fondly at that thought.) 

Akiteru is not and has never been a kid. _Big brother_ , yes. _Volleyball player_ and then _volleyball captain_ (and then _volleyball disappointment_ ), yes. _Used to play volleyball, haha_ , yes, with a funny joke to deflect their _why did you stop_ because he never did stop he was just not allowed to continue _which are two different things_ because _stopping_ is like a whole stretch of road in front of you and you stop because you are tired and then _not being allowed to continue_ is like running running running until the ground is no more beneath your feet. (Edge of a cliff.) 

So he does not categorise his life into _baby child adult_ groups because he is not quite sure where these groups blend into each other (do you split them by age, or by maturity? Split them by numbers or by feelings?). Is seventeen-year old Akiteru, standing in the stands acting cheerleader as his team plays, is he an adult or a child? 

(Sometimes Kei acts like an adult now, so cold and so unsmiling. It makes Akiteru ache because no smiling, happy, Kei would turn into someone like this if he had not been so young and stupid.) 

But he now is twenty-two and he sits in a crowded public bus on the way to work and he thinks about all this before it leads to _I’m really an adult now, huh_ (there is no applause. No blaring of trumpets. No confetti or sparklers or fireworks or golden light pouring in from the sky at this realization—not that he had been expecting it. Surely he would be more surprised if there _was_ any of the above—but the realisation alone comes like the last car in a nostalgia train and he smells the smoke as the train chug chug chugs away). 

See, Akiteru learns things when he is an adult (learns, _ha_ — more like realises just like everything else he knows which is nonsense words he had read somewhere when he was young and stupid and thought, that’s so stupid, but remembering it anyways. Like a treasure box unlocked, like being able to read a scroll after you reach a certain level in a video game, he realises like _oh_ ). He learns things like oh, I can’t survive on instant ramen and clearance bananas; and oh, I can still grow taller and I need new pants; and reading poetry books are really relaxing, wow— 

Etc. 

He learns that he will never again be greeted by six-year old Kei’s smile when he comes home (he had taken that privilege and hurled it into the ocean) and he wishes he more than just blurry memories of the old Kei (the Kei that looked up to his brother, that one). 

This becomes slightly okay-er as the visits home grow more often because Kei is Kei and comparing this Kei to a past Kei does nothing but offend Kei and hurt Akiteru and _what kind of brother does that, huh_. You throw away shoes when your feet have grown past their size, and you buy new ones, and these new ones might not be as brightly coloured or flashy as the previous pair (usually usually usually not) and he lets himself think maybe Kei’s grown into another pair of shoes and it is not Akiteru’s fault. 

You know, you’re always afraid of change. If it all goes wrong you will look back at that moment and resent it for ruining your life, but if it all goes well you will just... not look back. He thinks he would rather run face forward than gaze at something past him, something he cannot run back and chance now. 

Instead, Akiteru thinks about Kei’s friend, the one with the freckles like constellations, the one who can draw out sarcastic laughter or that pinching of his eyes (it happens when Kei is happy, _happy_ ) or the rare smile. So what if that smile is no longer wide and round and pickle shaped? At least his sharp, crescent-moon smile works much better with Tadashi’s constellation freckles. 

He learns that sometimes you will not contact someone for many months and you will look at their contact and that selfie they took six years ago when you first exchanged numbers. You will wonder how they are doing even though you know how they are doing (and you will have a moment, a selfish one, where you wonder how they are doing in the way that does not interest people on the internet but _interests you_ ) and you will, maybe, if you’re feeling bold, type out a message _hey_ or _how are you doing_ or _its me, akiteru_ and maybe add a little emoji but you will never feel quite bold enough to tap the little button that reads SEND. 

You will never feel bold enough to hit send if you never felt bold enough to tell your little brother you were lying to him for years. ( _That wasn’t your fault, Aki._ ) 

But sometimes the world will see this, will hear this, this this this _yearning_ to just _tap your thumb on the screen_ and watch the little unread sign pop up and it will help you in this way that does not quite feel like helping. 

The photo that’s his contact pic is a selfie. A selfie, blurred a little from hurry. In that photo, the baby chub he is just beginning to shed (far too late, far too late) and the wavy black hair that expands like a balloon with heat so shiny and soft and the deep blue eyes that hold so much light in them (they remind Akiteru of the sea, yes, a deep deep deep expanse of blue that clings onto the surface light). 

His phone burns his hand. 

Sometimes when you are an adult you will think about someone so often they wonder if they are coming down with a cold with all the sneezing they are doing, and you will pull out your phone and scroll down to their contact (wavy hair and blue eyes) and you will need to text _hey, how’ve you been_ with that unsaid _i’ve been thinking about you_. 

_Tsukishima-san!_

The world has a way of helping you in the way where it doesn’t quite feel like help, he learns. It makes you freeze and want to rewind (but this is life, there is no rewind button) and want the floor to open and swallow you up. The world works in mysterious ways. 

_I’ve been thinking about you_ , he thinks. Blue eyes and ocean waves. 

“How’ve you been?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ao3 formatting sucks T________T  
> comments and kudos always always appreciated..!! i luv hearing ur thoughts 
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/kingzhys) | [tumblr](http://kingzhys.tumblr.com)


	2. should i stop or not? should i give up or not?

When Akiteru was seventeen, chest deep in the beginnings of his lies, he’d stood with the rest of the team as they greeted the new first years. Amongst them, there had been a boy (blue eyes and ocean waves), school uniform rumpled as if he’d run to the gym as soon as the bell rang. (Though Akiteru’s still unsure, to this day, why he had stood out in the crowd of overeager, overexcited kids, unsure why it was _him_.)

He was small where Akiteru was tall, but he had a prescence so large you could not even hope to ignore it. (In contrast to Akiteru who melted into the shadows even when he screamed.) So small, so slight, so full of everything that it brimmed over. It was terrifying, and exhilarating, like watching soda bubble over (but times a hundred, bubbles bigger than his head in a can bigger than the Tokyo Tower.) 

His name was Udai Tenma. 

(They knew of each other but they did not know each other.) 

He was seventeen and Udai was sixteen and they did not know each other (yet). 

(There is always a yet, he finds, a phrase that says you gotta look forward to something, a phrase that says you’re not quite there but you will get there. Soon, yet, soon you will but not yet. Yes, when he was seventeen and Udai was sixteen they did not know each other, but the universe had plans for them. Had help for them.) 

His name was Udai Tenma and when he played volleyball it looked as easy as breathing, one two three. 

(Breathe in and out, in and out.) 

When Kei asks, he tells him he’s playing in matches for Karasuno. When Kei asks, he tells him about that day’s practice. When Kei asks, he talks about his teammates, about Ukai-sensei, describes the feeling of scoring a point (though he hasn’t felt that feeling since middle school, he thinks). 

When Kei asks, he lies. 

(And somewhere along the timeline of his lies, to Akiteru, volleyball had begun to lost its gleam. A shiny treasure left long without polishing, enclosed in glass to see but not to touch. Not _allowed_ to touch. Old pennies in the bottom of a fountain, a gold bracelet in a museum display. 

He puts in his hands in the water and scoops up the coins, turning them over in his hands.) 

_What a loss, that Udai-kun_ , he hears people say. _He jumps so high but he’s still so short it doesn’t make up for anything_ , they say. _How does he keep hitting when he gets blocked every time, you think?_ they say. 

(The pennies sparkle in his hands. Water drips from his fingers. Not quite dull yet, they say.) 

And when he lays in bed he thinks about what _they_ say and he wonders too, _how_ does _he keep hitting when he blocks every time? How_ does _he pick himself up when he lands, on his feet but heart on the floor, hearing stuff like_ he’s too short _andi what a waste _and_ what a loss, what a loss, _what a loss.__

__

__

He is slipping on his shoes before the sun has even begun to rise, every movement punctuated by a quiet yawn. Shoulders aching with the weight of his backpack. He checks his pockets for the gym key, his bike lock, his socks. 5:06, the kitchen clock says. 

“Nii-san? Where are you going?” 

He turns to see his brother’s dark shadow in the hall, soft in the lowlight. Shrugging on a jacket, tapping his feet so they fit right in his shoes. “Early practice,” he whispers, wiggling the key so it jingles a little. Kei’s eyes shine in the half-darkness. “Go back to sleep, ‘kay?” 

“You forgot your bento, nii-san,” he hears his brother call, but he doesn’t turn back. He doesn’t turn back, slinging a leg over his bike and speeding away. The road blurs as he pedals. 

(“Okaasan, can you make me three bento tomorrow?” he’d asked from the sink, where he had been running the water so he could scrub the dishes. In the background, the TV plays, a recording of a documentary on dinosaurs, Kei doing homework quietly in front of it. Of course, it wasn’t like he couldn’t make his _own_ lunches, but his mother would certainly notice if the refrigerator began emptying three times as fast. 

“Huh? Why?” 

Akiteru’d waved a dish towel. “You know, one for after morning practice, one for lunch, and one for before afternoon practice!” He caught his brother’s gaze, and pumped his fist. “We’re going to beat Shiratorizawa and go to nationals, so I need to practice hard!” 

“Karasuno can do it,” Kei told him solemnly, arms crossed over the back of the couch. “Akiteru can do it.” 

“Ahaha, okay. Make sure to keep your grades up, Akiteru.” 

“Kei, your big bro is going to become a first-year regular, yeah? Will you cheer for me?” 

“Of course!” was the affronted reply.) 

But his first year passes as quickly as the sun sets, and just like that really— feeling so slow yet the end comes before you blink. In that hazy blue-purple-grey twilight the street lights haven’t turned on yet but it is still too dark to see and he wanders, aimless, blind. His body is past sore, numb and buzzing and hot and he sits down on the gym step. 

_“Last practice of this year, let’s make it a good one!”_

The streetlights flicker on. He is so, so numb. 

(Running in place. He’s running in place, stuck on a treadmill with his feet stuck to the tread. He cannot get off as much as he tries, _so many hours of extra practice_ , giving up his lunch to practice, eating his extra bento as he rushes through the hallways, already late to his classes. _If I practice enough, maybe, just maybe_ , he’d thought. He’d hoped. 

_I’m so sorry_ , he thinks, _I’ve let you down._

How is he supposed to be a _first-year regular_ when he is already in his second year?) 

Seventeen-year old Tsukishima Akiteru screws his eyes shut, and smashes the ball down. 

He smashes the ball down into the shiny gym floor and all the anger coiled up and buried deep inside him shakes like an earthquake. _Where are you supposed to put anger?_ he wonders. Take it out on someone else? Leave it alone, let it build up, ignore it and hope the day it gets too big to be contained doesn’t come? 

Is this anger even _anger_? Where did it come from? What is it saying? 

(Shake shake _shake_ , a soda with bubbles as big as his head.) 

He feels eyes on his back as he lands (a tip-tap, toes to heels)—“Tsukishima-san?”—and the ball drops, bouncing against the floor that suddenly seems so hollow in the sound it makes. He turns around. And Udai Tenma leans his bicycle against the gym door, shadow thrown across the floor by the rising sun. 

Where are you supposed to put anger? he thinks. It evaporates like droplets of water on a hot stove. 

(They knew _of_ each other but they did not _know_ each other.) 

“Mind if I join you?” Udai asks. 

( _No_ , he thinks as he nods, as Udai grins so so brightly, as he crouches to tie his laces. As the smile on Udai’s face breaks into an enormous yawn louder than the morning. _No, I don’t mind_ , Akiteru slaps a hand over his mouth, choking on the laugh. Udai’s face flushes red and he glares, but not meanly. _I don’t mind at all._ ) 

“Make sure ya get enough sleep, Tsukishima-kun,” Ukai tells him later that week, the old man rustling around his jacket before pulling out the gym key with a loud _there you are, you rascal_. He nods, pocketing the key, and somewhere in the changerooms, Udai lets out a loud yawn. 

He likes to think that he’s beginning to know Udai Tenma a little more. (Know, know _of_.) He supposes the early hour and the creeping rising sun loosens one’s lips some, and he finds himself spilling about Kei as they rest on the gym step. Udai’s hair is puffy like a balloon filled with air, around his face like a lion’s mane, and the sun colours him orange. 

“You’re a good brother,” Udai tells him, hand on his shoulder. He smiles as he says this, something bright and secret. 

Akiteru lets himself believe that for a moment. 

(Pretends he is not already chin deep in his spider web-sticky lies, pretends he is not so cold and lonely in a place he’d put himself, pretends he is what Udai thinks he is because he wishes he was what Udai thinks he is. 

He wonders: _will I ever be?_ and the sun is warm on his skin.) 

Second year comes and goes just like the first. (They wish the third years well. They cry. They don’t do much practice even though Koichi-san tells them to stop being babies and make such a big deal— but the captain’s eyes are watery too, and Akiteru calls him out jokingly. “Tsukishima, you rat,” Koichi grouches, scrunching up his face. “If you’re this mean to the underclassmen next year, I’ll come back to scold you,” which only causes the entire team to crack up.) 

Second year comes and goes just like the first, and Akiteru does not become a starter. Akiteru does not even get a spot on the bench. 

(How is he supposed to be a _first-year regular_ when he is already in his ~~second~~ _third_ year?)

“Next year,” Udai says. The gym is like a ghost behind them now, dark and empty. This change, the change between years is the strangest, Akiteru thinks, because you don’t feel older or smarter or more mature. Two seconds ago, you were a second year, but now you’re a third. What’s changed? he wonders. (The paper says _third year Karasuno student._ ) 

The sun sets. 

“Next year,” Akiteru echoes. He does not know what he is promising. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this'll be following canon lines so i'm writing as the chapters are released ! so ahh forgive me for the slow short updates 
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/kingzhys) | [tumblr](http://kingzhys.tumblr.com)


	3. that's how it is, even adults make mistakes

Adulthood is really strange, he thinks. 

“Ehh? He’s a middle blocker with  _ that  _ height?” Udai is saying, and Akiteru is jarred by the lack of hand movement.  _ He’s changed _ , he thinks. (But of course— they’ve both changed, they’re adults now, they’re not kids anymore,) Though the Udai Tenma four years ago spoke as much with his hands as he did with his mouth, so much so Akiteru’s been smacked a few times. 

He wonders,  _ what made him stop? _

Some people, he thinks, grow up faster, step out of their kid skins easier. They are what their age demands, nothing more, nothing less. They lose their enthusiasm, they lose their energy, they lose themselves to fit into the “adult” mold society demands of them, to go into the world like hundreds of thousands of robots. 

Udai Tenma is not a robot. 

(Am I a robot?) 

“Yeah, diagonal to my boy Kei,” Akiteru says proudly, louder even though he knows the words won’t carry. (“Don’t boast about  _ me _ ,” Kei had said, gaze turned away from Akiteru.  _ Boast about yourself _ goes unsaid.) Kei turns around anyways, gym light glaring off his glasses, as if he can tell Akiteru’s bragging about him again. “He’s got a second sense for when I’m talking about him, I swear,” he says, and Udai laughs. 

It is not as bright as it used to be, Akiteru notices. He doesn’t understand why it makes him feel so bad. 

(Adulthood is strange. An entire life was just a series of routines, one after the other, a neverending rollercoaster in a loop. Occasionally that rollercoaster changed and you were sent hurtling down a sixty metre drop, heart in your throat and stomach on the ground. You think, I’m an adult now, I’m mature now, I don’t let emotions control me now, and—)

_ We’re just stupid kids, but at least we can be stupid together _ , the song goes. He hums, but it is quickly lost beneath the roaring of the crowd, and the melody in his head screeches to a stop as the match begins. (An announcement, a whistle, and the everpresent cacophony of the audience.) 

The deja vu hits him like a pillow but like a truck at the same time. How long has it been? How long has it been since  this , this cheering, screaming  _ Karasuno! _ at the tops of his lungs, swept into the lolling movement of the audience as they cheer for Karasuno, for Kamomedai, for both teams. It is familiar enough to hurt, a coiling knot of something in his chest as he leans over the rail and yells his brother’s name. 

Familiar but not. He is different, older now, less burdened— no, he is burdened with different things now. The lights shine brighter in this official gym. Unfamiliar but also, not. When he looks across the gym is sees faceless crowd and not the wide (betrayal melted into disappointment melted into cold, cold, so cold) eyes of his little brother. No, his little brother stands now on the court, having put his feet in Akiteru’s footsteps even though they sink like quicksand, and that’s different too— when he looks down at the court it is not the wavy black hair of the Little Giant he sees—the Little Giant stands next to him, rolled up magazine in hand, bouncing on his toes—but the bright orange head of the new little giant. 

He thinks,  _ it’s been so long .  _

(A huge, huge wall stands in front of me, blocking my way. I wonder what the view is on the other side. What does it look like? The view from the summit— 

It’s something I’ll never be able to see by myself. 

But if I’m not alone—) 

Sometimes you feel alone even when you are surrounded by lots of people, he learns. A whole busy street corner on a Monday morning, everyone’s too fixated on getting to work on time to pay attention to anyone else. A volleyball stadium with people paying more attention to the game (as they should) than to the one Karasuno cheer squad member, frozen in place, a line connected between his eyes and the eyes of a little boy, eyes shuttering off with curtains of disappointment. A whole world, 7 billion people, and you are but a tiny speck in a pile of dust to be swept away. 

Alone may not mean lonely. He may bike over the rolling hills at five in the morning, turn on the lights to the gym at five in the morning, roll out the baskets of balls at six, and he will not feel lonely. It will be quiet and he will not feel lonely. 

Udai Tenma may pull open the creaky metal doors, and the sun will spill into the quiet Karasuno gym. 

Hinata lands he hits the floor running, eyes squeezed shut with the largeness of his smile; when the crowd’s stunned silence shifts into something deafening; when the announcer’s incredulous “ _ Someone who is 160 cm, just flashily got past a 2 metre wall! _ ” crackles from the speakers, a stunned quality to his voice— 

(Udai’s always been very expressive. He does not hide his emotions well, but at the same time— his emotions bubble to the surface like bubbles in a soda, like sharks in the ocean. One looks at him and thinks—  _ oh, he’s happy _ . One looks at him and thinks,  _oh, he’s angry_. But just like one does not see really about what is below that happiness or that anger and in that way Udai is not expressive at all— 

In that way Kei is very expressive. Akiteru’s always been able to tell what he’s thinking, even after his face becomes a rock. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, don’t they?) 

“Go, go, Shouyou! Push it, push it, Shouyou!” 

History is doomed to repeat itself, they also say. (Though Akiteru may not personally say  _ doomed to _ , he has to admit to the truth in that.) Not all repetition is bad. Not all history is bad. 

Next year , Udai had promised, holding his fist out for Akiteru to touch. In that way of teenagers drunk on a taste of adulthood, they’d been. He hadn’t know what he was promising but he did so anyways, and they’d walked home close enough to touch but not touching, and Akiteru remembers that feeling like it was yesterday. 

_Next year_ , he’d promised, not knowing that it was. Next year, we’ll become starters. Next year, we’ll beat Shiratorizawa. Next year, we’ll go to Nationals. It could’ve been any of those things. (It’s likely it was one of those things.) 

“You okay, Kiki?” one of the other third years, a delinquent-looking type with soft pink hair asks. Really, Hideaki is the farthest thing from a delinquent, but his reputation trailed him like moths to his coloured hair flame. His hair is like cotton candy, Akiteru thinks, a nice change from last month’s cherry bomb red. What better hair for a pinch server though, a role so fleeting one needed some colour to be remembered. It fluffs up when Hideaki pulls his hoodie off, floating around his head like a cloud. At Akiteru’s questioning noise, he grins sheepishly. “Ah, I mean, you seem happier these days? You know, less distant and stressed, when you think about it.” A pause, and a laugh. “I like it.” 

Akiteru laughs. He doesn’t know what else to do. 

“Hey hey hey, tell me what’s funny,” Udai cuts in teasingly, a row above Akiteru and Hideaki. He throws his arms around Akiteru’s neck. The referee blows his whistle and the game starts, a practice between Karasuno and another school whose name Akiteru didn’t quite catch. He turns around. Udai’s in his uniform—hopeful, Akiteru thinks—black volleyball jacket hanging from the crook of his arm. 

Udai’s  _ hopeful _ . 

But you know, that next year Akiteru doesn’t make it onto the starting lineup , or even the bench. ( _ You know. _ ) Udai leaves right after afternoon practice to train privately with Ukai. And so tired with this extra practice (for what, Akiteru doesn’t quite ever find out), Udai doesn’t come to their unspoken pre-morning practice practice.  _ We didn’t even talk about it _ , he thinks furiously. Though he’d always opened the gym himself, set up the gym himself, it feels colder. Emptier. Akiteru hears the jangling of his bicycle bell as the other team members filter inside, tie their shoes, fill up their water bottles. 

Because Udai fullfils his promise of  _ Next year _ . Next year, let’s become starters; check. (Next year, let’s beat Shiratorizawa; check. Next year, let’s go to Nationals—  _ check _ .) He plays, Akiteru cheers, and he feels himself lose something. Standing in the stands hitting orange cones together while the boy he had practiced with (laughed with, smiled with, joked with,  been with) plays, furious intensity in his eyes. 

(Though he knows he’s not a resentful person, the storybook jealousy that should be coiling in his chest like a snake is... not. Is absent, and the more he thinks about it, the bigger the empty space.) The bed creaks as he tosses his old volleyball up, and up, and up. His elbows are sore. (Shouldn’t I be jealous?) 

But you know, Akiteru’s never been a resentful person. 

(He is, he finds out, a lonely person.) 

The gym begins to feel emptier. 

(He still turns around when the gym doors creak open earlier than usual, ghost of a smile. He’ll come today, he hells himself. But it’s never Udai.) 

Is hope a childish thing to have? His hope to make it, to redeem himself. His hope to be able to brag to his little brother and not be lying. His hope for Udai Tenma to push open the doors of the lonely Karasuno gym, this hope... 

He decides, sometime halfway through his third year, that he should probably stop hoping. 

“Tsukishima-kun? You don’t want the key?” The incredulity in Ukai’s voice hurts. 

(He still wakes up at the crack of dawn.  _ Let me sleep _ , he thinks frantically, hands cupped over his shut eyes.  _ Stop waking up _ . He pulls his hands away from his eyes and they are wet, wet in trails down his cheeks. 

It doesn’t quite get it.) 

“I don’t get it either,” he tells the birds hopping over the gritty gravel path, dark bags feeling like they weigh his face down. It’s a cloudy day and the sun isn’t rising, and he thinks there might be rain. It’s that smell in the air, the warmth, the heaviness. The park is still empty at so early an hour. Still quiet. 

I’m losing you, aren’t I? 

He closes his eyes. 

The ball slams onto the court, Kamomedai’s tiny wing spiker throwing a pose, the crowd going wild. The noise whitens until he feels like he cannot quite hear anything. “Wow—!” Udai is saying, and he knows not because he can hear Udai but because that’s the expression he makes when he’s impressed, eyes wide and brows drawn, mouth open in a boxy smile. 

Three years have passed and he still doesn’t quite get it. 

(This isn’t one of the questions you can Google.) 

He slides a glance at Udai. He’s gotten older, he knows. Count on your fingers like when you were a kindergartener. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty— one. He’s gotten older, but he doesn’t look much older. Through your teens and 20s and early 30s, you mostly look the same, they say. He dresses the same, he notices, layered clothes, big hoodies and jackets and loose-tight pants. He’s not much different from when he was seventeen. 

He wonders if Udai’s hair, now longer, still puffs out when he gets hot.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!!!!!!! sorry for the lateish update i had a moment of writers block im shaking off rn TT hope u enjoyed this one!!!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/kingzhys) | [tumblr](http://kingzhys.tumblr.com)


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